"Your turn," Rosie said.
Annmarie grinned. "Do you have … a king?"
Rosie handed over the king, and Annmarie set her cards down. "I win again!" She glanced at Ian, who divided his attention between the fog that shrouded the boat and their card game. Outside, rain pattered against the boat as it had for the entire three days they had been here. "Did you see that, Mr. Ian?"
"I did."
"Aunt Rosie's not very good at this game."
"Hey, don't talk about me like I'm not here," Rosie said.
"Oh," Annmarie said, patting her hand. "You don't have to feel bad. With a little more practice, you'll get better."
Ian laughed at Annmarie's inflection, which sounded exactly like Rosie.
"Are you sure you don't want to play with us?" Annmarie asked Ian.
"Nope." He caught Rosie's glance and grinned. "You know the saying, 'Lucky in love, unlucky in cards.'"
"You could be in for a disappointment," she returned.
He remembered the first time she said that to him, and there had been heat in her voice that she didn't have now. During the three days they had been anchored in this cove, he'd repeatedly tested the waters with her, inviting her to flirt back. She didn't, but her "keep away" signals had dissolved into a certain wariness, almost as though she wanted to flirt but wasn't sure how to.
If she had been Lily, he would have believed she was naive enough not to understand his intent. Rosie was many things—naive wasn't one of them, as she had proven when the two of them searched the entire boat for another transmitter. Thankfully they hadn't found one, but there wasn't an inch that had gone unchecked. The events leading up to their thorough search had somehow cemented things between them. They were allies—albeit reluctant ones, at least on Rosie's part. They made a good team … as long as he remembered she didn't like taking orders.
Since then the fog and the ongoing rain provided them with a cover. Ian knew from his own experience that as long as they stayed put, they were unlikely to be discovered. The days had fallen into a routine that was surprisingly comfortable despite the circumstances that brought them here. They monitored the radio traffic and watched the news, which hadn't let them know much of anything—especially not a bit of news about her cousin and whether he was okay.
So they spent the time inventing games for Annmarie, watching movies from the Eriksens' collection and watching the rain fall as though it might never stop.
During the evenings, he and Rosie talked—mostly he talked, and she listened to his dreams and plans for Lucky's Third Chance. When he told her about his search for a place for an Outward Bound program, she responded that he had described the island where she lived. That suggestion took root, tantalizing him with possibilities—not only about his dream, but about Rosie.
And each night after she went to bed, he kept watch over their safe haven and quietly tortured himself by imagining how Rosie's body would fit intimately with his.
She looked up suddenly, and he realized he was staring. "You're pretty," he murmured, and then could have kicked himself when she frowned.
"I'm not. Annmarie is, but…"
"What about Annmarie makes her pretty?" he asked, wondering why Rosie denied the obvious.
"Yeah," Annmarie piped in, clearly enjoying the attention.
"Well," Rosie said, looking at Annmarie. "Your freckles, and your brown eyes and your shiny hair."
"If that's the recipe," Ian said, "you're pretty, too."
"I think so, too," Annmarie said, and grinned at Ian. "She's got all the same stuff as me."
"She does."
"Plus boobies." She glanced down at her own flat chest. "Mommy says I won't have any for years."
Ian's gaze fastened on Rosie's pink cheeks, and he couldn't wait to hear how she responded. Much as he wanted to look at the rounded curve of her breasts, he didn't.
"Your mother is right," she said, getting up.
The answer must have been exactly on target because Annmarie abandoned the topic of anatomy when she said to Ian, "Since you don't want to play cards, how about we color?"
"I think I'll take Sly outside," Rosie said.
The dog, who had been asleep in the middle of the aisle next to the galley, lifted his head at the mention of his name.
"It's still raining hard," Annmarie called after her. "You're gonna get all wet, Aunt Rosie."
"Need a cold shower?" Ian teased.
At that Rosie laughed. "In your dreams."
"Every single night," he responded.
She opened the door, letting in the distinct smell of the rain. "Come on, Sly."
She opened the gate and put the ramp across to the rocky bench next to where they were anchored. Sly dutifully went across while she stood under the shelter of the canopy.
"Cold shower," Rosie muttered under her breath, staring at the deep water next to the boat. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, but he'd hit too close to home. She kept attributing the byplay between them to their close quarters. But the man looked too darn good, and on top of that, he'd been surprisingly easy company. In a dozen nonthreatening ways, he made it clear that he found her attractive and that he was waiting for her to invite him closer. She didn't dare.
Did she?
Even though she was out here, she knew he was watching, knew that he'd see any movement in the mist long before she did. The first morning, she found him at dawn on the flying bridge, watching the approach of something through the heavy rain. Topaz-blue crystalline icebergs from the glacier at the head of the fjord more than twenty miles away had been reduced to fanciful ice sculptures by the wind and the rain. Thankfully, the occasional iceberg was the only thing they had seen in the channel. But he was always watching.
Just this morning he'd pointed out a pair of deer barely within the timber, his hand lightly resting on her shoulder. She had wanted to lean into his strength and his warmth, and she had stepped away from him just to prove to herself that she could.
How many days had she known him? Five or six now? Too few for any sensible woman to be thinking about letting the man come as close as she was beginning to dream about. Too few, given his confession about his misspent youth and his too-evident familiarity with violence.
The warrior in him couldn't be disguised. No matter how absorbed he seemed in the games they played with Annmarie, there was a part of him ever on guard. However disturbing she personally found his strength and his constant watchfulness, she also admitted that she had never felt safer or more cared for. That realization kept surprising her.
Each time she experienced one of his casual, intentional touches, she wondered what kissing him again would be like without the awful distractions they'd had the other day. Kissing him … and more.
Her only salvation was Annmarie and thinking of ways to keep her entertained. Staying away from Ian was impossible, especially since he was included in their games and played readily, his competitive steak brushing off on Annmarie. This afternoon, when they played cards, was the first time he hadn't wanted to be included.
At last Sly returned to the boat, and Rosie went back inside, immediately catching Ian's eye. She'd bet he knew that she hadn't been off the boat. She wished she could make some flip comment about showers that would put him in his place. None came to mind. As if he somehow knew that, he winked.
"I think it's time for popcorn and movies," he said. "Annmarie, what do you want to watch?"
* * *
Long after she went to bed, feeling Annmarie breathe softly next to her, Rosie stared at the ceiling and listened to the rain patter gently against the hull. The movie had been an adventure, but when the hero's romantic interest had been put in jeopardy, he risked life and limb to save her, showing her the depth of his feeling through his actions, though he never confessed his love. Rosie found herself comparing the movie script to their situation. Ian had put his life on the line several times to keep them safe … actions even more heroic than in the movie they had watched. Then he had
kissed her with such gentleness and restrained passion.
Images of everything that had happened over the past week flowed through her mind, Ian at the center of her thoughts. The way he had looked that first breakfast they shared and her discovery of a steely resolve just beneath his easy smile. The sensual invitation in his eyes every time he looked at her. The massage he'd given her the first night on the boat, almost as though he'd known she was afraid to be touched. And his kiss. Added all together, how in the world was she to resist the feelings blossoming inside her?
Too restless to sleep, she climbed from bed and went to the galley. She opened the refrigerator door and stared inside. She didn't want food or drink or a boring book, all designed to make her sleep. What she wanted was to—
"Make love," she whispered. Her heart pounded, but admitting it out loud hadn't been so bad.
"I've been thinking about that, too," he said.
Her breath caught. She whirled around and found him sitting on the couch next to the helm. "Don't you ever sleep?"
"Not much." He stood and moved toward her. "What are you doing up, Rosie?"
"I—" Lord, she felt as though she might strangle "—couldn't sleep."
His chuckle was soft. "That's a relief. You're not sleepwalking, then."
"No."
He was close enough that she could see his eyes. He was dressed only in jeans, his chest bare and looking better than she remembered, even in the dim light from the inside of the refrigerator. She pushed closed the door, and the darkness, broken only by a light marking the location of one of the steps, seemed much too intimate.
"And you're thinking about making love."
"Oh. Um. Ah, I was, uh … talking to myself."
He reached for her hand. "Don't let me stop you." He placed her palm against his chest. "Now, you were saying?"
Beneath the hair that curled around her fingers, the skin of his chest was hot. No thought coherent enough to express out loud surfaced. She felt the thudding of his heart, and somehow hers caught the same tempo.
He moved closer and rested one of his hands at her waist, and with his other lifted her chin. "I can't get that kiss out of my mind, Rosie." He lowered his head, and his mouth brushed against her temple, then touched her cheek. "I'm going to kiss you again," he said. "Okay?"
"Okay." Her reply came out on a sigh, and she lifted her face toward him, wanting that kiss more than she'd ever wanted anything. Instead of kissing her mouth, his lips strayed over her face as though he had nothing better to do than sprinkle soft leisurely caresses all over her cheeks and nose and temple. Finally he kissed the corner of her mouth, and she turned into him, determined to have the kiss she wanted. He stilled, as if he, too, were waiting. She stood on tiptoe and kissed the corner of his mouth, then touched his jaw, pulling it down, feeling the rasp of his whiskers beneath her fingers.
"Kiss me, please," she whispered.
"My pleasure," he murmured, his mouth against hers. Then he brushed her lips with his, softly, just as the kisses on her cheek had been. Long moments after she thought she'd burn alive from the wanting, he opened his mouth and gave her the hot, seeking kiss she had wanted.
Tears sprang to her eyes, the sensation everything she remembered and more, swallowing her within a vortex of swirling brilliant sensations that left her shaking. She greedily devoured him right back. If she had ever felt … quite like this … she couldn't remember.
She eased her hands into his hair, her senses heightened to his scent, the touch of his tongue gliding against hers, the pressure of his chest against her sensitive breasts.
His hands cupped her bottom, and as if sensing she could no longer support her own weight, he lifted her onto the narrow counter, then stepped between her legs. She wrapped them around him, the denim of his jeans abrasive against her bare skin of her inner thighs. His hands eased beneath the cotton of her oversize T-shirt and left a scorching path across the bare skin of her back. He grazed the side of her breasts, and she pressed closer, wanting, needing a more intimate touch.
He broke the kiss and rested his forehead against hers, his breath ragged.
"We're making love," he murmured.
"Yes," she whispered.
"I want to take you downstairs." He drew back and looked in her eyes.
He was, she realized, giving her a moment of sanity in which she could say no. Despite the twinge of apprehension that slithered through her, she felt as though she was at the brink of some wonderful discovery that she'd forever regret if she didn't face her fear.
"Yes."
He stepped back and held out his hand. She took it and slipped off the counter. He led her down the steps to his stateroom where a night-light revealed his mussed sheets—an indication that at least at some point he'd gone to bed.
He sat on the edge of the mattress and pulled her close, wrapping his arms around her waist, pressing his face against her stomach, his breath hot, even through her T-shirt. He cupped her bottom beneath her panties, his hands as hot as his breath. An instant later he pulled the panties down her legs, and she stepped out of them, trembling so badly that she sank onto the bed. He followed her down, lying beside her, running a long finger down the center of her body.
"I love the way you smell," he whispered. "Roses, but better."
She scooted closer, then kneaded the muscles of his back, absorbing everything about him. The smooth feel of his skin, the taut muscles of his shoulders, his murmurs of reassurance and praise as he pulled the T-shirt over her head.
"Open your eyes, Rosie," he whispered. "Look at me."
She did, and his eyes burned into hers. His hands were hot on her breasts. She glanced down, and against the pale skin of her breasts, his hands looked impossibly large and beautifully masculine. The approval in his expression when he at last looked at her made another flare of heat burn through her, leaving her achy and empty and needy as she had never been. He brushed his hands over the curve of her breasts, teasing and caressing and making her ache for more.
His breath felt so hot against her skin. The attention he lavished on her breasts was an imitation of the kisses he'd given her earlier, a teasing sprinkle designed to make her lose her mind. When he at last pulled a nipple into his mouth, she arched into him. He showered caresses on one, then the other, that left her begging for him to finish it.
She opened her legs for him at the touch of his fingers against the inside of her thigh, sure that he'd carry her over the pinnacle soon. His touch intensified each wave of sensation without satisfying it
She explored him just as greedily, reassured by his carefully controlled strength, his ragged breathing and his muttering of her name.
Suddenly he rolled away from her and pushed down his jeans and sheathed himself in a condom that he took from a drawer next to the bed, his hands sweeping up her legs the instant he came back to her.
As if he couldn't stand another second of being separate from her, he eased her onto her back and spread her knees wide with his own. His breath ragged, he stared down at her, looking huge and strong and so, oh male. She reached for him, and he captured her hands with his. In one smooth stroke he entered her, pinning her beneath him.
She cried out and bucked against him, no longer in this moment but caught in an old one filled with unbearable pain and humiliation. She fought to escape, as though her very life were in jeopardy. Suddenly her hands were free, and she swung with all her might, connecting a solid blow to his jaw.
"Rosie, what the hell?"
He rolled away from her, and she scooted to the far side of the bed and stood up, looking wildly around, holding her arms braced in front of her as if to ward off an attacker.
A chill crawled up Ian's scalp as he looked at her. She was positively terrified. He reached for her, needing to reassure her. He'd been so sure she was ready.
She jerked away and ran from the room.
Ian caught her at the bottom of the steps that led up to the salon. Again she swung at him. He let her go and
backed away. Breathing hard, she braced her arms against the wall, her head bowed.
"Rosie, what happened? I didn't mean to hurt you, I swear I didn't."
"Go away."
"No." He took her hand, but she snatched it away and stepped beyond his reach, reminding him of that very first morning in her house.
She turned around and looked at him, and he could have sworn that she was surprised to see him. "Oh, God." Her gaze swept down the length of his body, lingering a long moment on his groin. A minute earlier he'd been hard as stone, but he no longer was. Her chin quivered, and she closed her eyes.
"Rosie, talk to me."
She shook her head. "Stay right there."
He went back to the stateroom, pulled on his jeans and disposed of the condom. When he couldn't find her T-shirt, he retrieved a clean one from the dresser. When he returned to her, she had wrapped her arms around herself, and no one had ever looked more forlorn or vulnerable to him. He held the bottom of the T-shirt toward her.
"Here," he said, intending to help her. Instead she took the shirt from him and pulled it over her head.
When she turned back to him, she raised her chin and cleared her throat, tears tracking down her face. "I'm really sorry," she said. "Good night."
"Good night, hell!" He raked a hand through his hair. "If anyone's sorry— I didn't mean to hurt you."
Suddenly she bent her head and wept, sobs shaking her shoulders. When he touched her shoulder, she bolted up the steps. He followed her, guilt riding him hard. She'd been hot and ready for him—he knew it. He didn't have a clue what had happened or what he could have or should have done differently.
Once again he extended a hand to her. "Rosie, please talk to me."
This time she didn't pull away. Keeping his grip loose, he led her to the couch in the salon. She didn't sit as much as collapse, sobs again shaking her shoulders. Ignoring her protests, he gathered her close and held her while she cried, hard bitter tears as though whatever was within her had been bottled away forever.
Confused and feeling guilty and distressed at the depth of her unhappiness, he simply held her.
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